


His Alone

by bendingsignpost



Series: Tumblr Fic [29]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of a Case, Dark Castiel (Supernatural), Dark Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dubious Consent, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, M/M, Unreliable Narrator, Yandere, Yandere Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 16:36:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20491901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bendingsignpost/pseuds/bendingsignpost
Summary: “He hurt you,” Castiel says. Calmly. Reasonably.Dean presses back against the wall as if there’s still a threat in the room.“It’s all right,” Castiel continues, stepping over a cooling body. He holds up both hands, freshly clean. When Dean turns pale—paler—Castiel spares a thought for his own appearance but quickly confirms that he’s vanished the blood and gore away. Besides, it’s hardly as if Dean hasn’t seen worse before. “He’s dead.”





	His Alone

**Author's Note:**

> anonymous  
for your AU creations: Yandere + Enemies >:)

“He hurt you,” Castiel says. Calmly. Reasonably. 

Dean presses back against the wall as if there’s still a threat in the room. 

“It’s all right,” Castiel continues, stepping over a cooling body. He holds up both hands, freshly clean. When Dean turns pale—paler—Castiel spares a thought for his own appearance but quickly confirms that he’s vanished the blood and gore away. Besides, it’s hardly as if Dean hasn’t seen worse before. “He’s dead.”

To prove it, Castiel taps the ex-demon’s ex-host on the head with his foot. 

The head rolls, empty eye sockets staring sightlessly up for their brief turn. 

“Cas, we talked about this,” Dean says. 

“Yes,” Castiel agrees, resuming his approach. 

True to form, Dean pushes away from the wall. The human man calls upon his full height, as if his physical shape could tower over Castiel’s true form. Unaware of how adorable he looks, Dean lifts his chin and focuses his gaze into a challenge. 

“He hurt you,” Castiel repeats. He reaches out and takes Dean by the arm. 

Always one to hide his own wounds, Dean resists, but Castiel is implacable. Castiel draws firmly, never jerking, never squeezing, his motion and pressure always consistent, always gentle. Reverent. He frames the cut with both hands. He heals the wound, adjusts Dean’s blood levels, and removes the stain from his sleeve. The smudges of dirt clinging to the sweat on Dean’s face, Castiel leaves, the better to wipe away with his thumbs. 

Dean trembles under his touch. 

“It’s all right,” Castiel reminds him, his voice as soft as his touch. “I love you.” 

Dean’s heartbeat, already elevated, takes off like a shot. So many fears of abandonment, so many years of not knowing who to rely on. Dean’s learned to withdraw, learned to lash out. So many pieces of preemptive rejection, all to spare himself. 

Castiel knows him so well. 

“I’m taking you home,” Castiel informs Dean, a hand comfortingly on his shoulder. These are the things Dean wants, the things Dean should have: home, consistency, contact. These are but a few of the things Castiel provides.

“I’m not done with the hunt,” Dean says, but there’s more caution than argument in his voice. 

Castiel looks back to the decapitated demon. Head cocked to the side, he looks at Dean. “Aren’t you?”

“Loose ends,” Dean says. “Gotta wrap up.”

“Such as?”

Nostrils flared, eyes dilated, Dean pulls in shallow breaths. “I gotta... talk to the victims’ families.”

“I’ll come with you,” Castiel says, his hand returning to the side of Dean’s face. “I’ll fly us there.” 

“How about I meet you back at the bunker,” Dean says. 

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Don’t play dumb.” _And you know the bunker isn’t home_. 

The bunker was unsatisfactory for Dean’s needs. Human beings require sunlight and fresh air. Dean had insisted otherwise, too accustomed to denying himself, and this is why Castiel must insist on Dean’s behalf. 

“How about you listen to what I say I want,” Dean says, unerringly guessing Castiel’s mind. Dean’s so good, so attentive that way, even if he is ultimately wrong. It’s the effort that counts, and Dean puts in so much more than his fair share. 

“What do you want, Dean?” Castiel asks, willing to indulge him, or at least pretend. 

“I’m talking with the victims’ families. At least the last victim’s family, they knew it was an actual demon doing shit.” The longer Dean speaks, the higher his chin rises. Baring the throat, such beautiful and unconscious submission. “I’m not leaving them without that closure.”

Castiel smiles faintly, proudly. “Of course not.” 

And he flies them there. 

Dean promptly grabs at his arm, a gratifying response. He glares at Castiel before straightening his posture, before straightening his faux-FBI suit. “I’m going in alone.”

“I’ll get the car,” Castiel replies, and turns invisible, becomes intangible. 

Dean takes a second before closing his eyes and breathing out. “Son of a bitch.” His shoulders sag, but he only takes that single moment for himself before climbing the front steps and ringing the doorbell. 

A bereaved mother opens the door and welcomes Dean in. Stepping through the closing door, Castiel follows. He stands behind the couch where Dean sits and recaps the events of the day. Dean leaves out Castiel’s contributions, but that’s tidier. Easier. And besides, Dean deserves their thanks. 

Too many thanks, when it comes to the victim’s sister. She reaches for Dean. She squeezes his arm right where Castiel had just healed it. 

Castiel glares illness into her lungs, into the lining of her stomach. 

She doesn’t notice. Not now, not yet, and so Dean won’t either. It wouldn’t do to upset him. 

Dean hugs them both goodbye, the mother and the sister. Castiel glowers brittleness into their bones. Dean walks out, lighter for the contact, and Castiel makes plans for tonight. Dean needs more contact than he thinks he does. 

At the end of the stone walkway leading through dry grass to the sidewalk, Dean stands, looking up and down the street. Castiel watches, and Castiel resists. He doesn’t read Dean’s mind, or even skim or touch it. He studies Dean’s expression instead. He parses the rhythms and tension of Dean’s body. 

Dean pulls out his phone and begins to type. First to Sam. 

Always, _always_ first to Sam, but Dean and Castiel have talked about this. Dean has a duty to Sam. At his core, Dean _is _duty to Sam. For Castiel to refuse to acknowledge that would be a failure to truly love Dean. 

And that would be unacceptable. 

Dean’s summary of the hunt is succinct but does mention Cas. A positive sign, Dean adds that he’s not sure where he’s spending the night. Once Dean’s sent the text, he starts on another, this to Castiel. 

_You teleporting the car over?_ Dean asks. 

Castiel waits for Dean to send it before materializing. “The Impala is in the garage,” Castiel says. 

Dean turns to him without jumping, without flinching. For a human with Dean’s levels of trauma and survival instincts, this speaks the volumes that Dean himself refuses to. “At the bunker, right?”

Castiel simply looks at Dean, waiting for Dean to acknowledge the flaw in that assumption. 

“At the bunker, _right_?” Dean repeats instead, so stubborn, so full of life. 

Castiel puts his hand over the healed wound, over where another dared to touch. “You were injured today,” he says as Dean blanches. “I should take care of you.”

Muscles as tense as they are strong, Dean regards him with wide, dark eyes and a scent reeking of adrenaline. “I’m fine now,” Dean says. 

Again, Castiel waits. 

“Cas, we agreed I’d get to keep hunting,” Dean tells him, as if Castiel could possibly have forgotten. 

“You’ve hunted,” Castiel points out. “Now you’ve finished for the day.”

“Take me back to the bunker,” Dean orders, magnificent in his presumption.

“Tomorrow.”

Dean regards him, a pair of green eyes flitting across Castiel’s face. “You promise you’ll take me back to the bunker tomorrow.”

“If you ask tomorrow, I’ll take you,” Castiel says. 

Dean shakes his head. “Promise me _now_. You take me back to the bunker tomorrow, or I’m calling a ride and heading back today.”

“I promise to take you tomorrow, if you ask.”

Dean wavers, and there is such beauty in it. 

“I’m respecting your right to change your mind,” Castiel reminds him. 

_Bullshit_, Dean’s eyes declare. _Bullshit_, the set of his jaw agrees. 

So, so beautiful. 

“Okay, fine,” Dean says. He holds out his hand to Castiel.

Beaming, Castiel takes it, pulls Dean close, and flies them home. 

They land in their bedroom, Dean leaning hard against Castiel’s chest. Dean pushes back slowly, more slowly still after Castiel catches a kiss. 

“I need dinner,” Dean says when Castiel presses for more, and so they feed him. No matter how Castiel explains that Dean no longer requires sustenance outside Castiel, no food or drink or sleep, Dean insists on human habits. Dean enjoys them, which is sufficient reason to indulge him. There’s a pleasant compromise in Dean’s choice of foodstuffs, fatty meats and sweet pie treating his body in ways Castiel’s powers can easily undo. Dean could eat cardboard, if he were so inclined, and Castiel would keep him well-fed regardless. 

Dean has Castiel cook in the kitchen beside him, a new habit that seems to grant Dean some much needed illusion of control. Dean directs Castiel as an extension of himself, but only here, only in this one limited way, impossibly unaware that Castiel is his to command, if only Dean would command him. 

As Dean eats, tucked beneath the band of Castiel’s arm, he watches TV. 

Castiel watches Dean. 

When Dean is finished, Castiel “does the dishes” instantly. Typically, this makes Dean at least slightly amused, but tonight, it does little to cheer him. 

“How about a movie?” Dean says, as if Castiel would ever deny him. 

They watch together, Dean nestled against Castiel’s side, arranged as hurts his back the least. Resisting the urge to stroke, Castiel keeps his hands where they are. Of late, Dean has considered their movie nights far more important than they used to be, back when they still shared them with Sam, back before Castiel realized that Dean could be his. 

But then, Dean is right to do so. These nights do feel more important, now that they’re together, as they’re meant to be. 

Dean’s recent movie choices also have a number of themes in common, ones he didn’t fixate on when Sam was there to see. Tonight’s movie, as so many others, involves yet another protagonist breaking free of some form of mind control on behalf on their love interest. Castiel wonders how deep Dean’s fears of demonic possession run, but he keeps his promise and doesn’t delve into Dean’s mind. 

Perhaps the movie themes have been an unconscious choice on Dean’s part. It’s always possible. Humans lack an absurd degree of self-awareness. 

Castiel holds Dean close throughout, the side of his head against the side of Dean’s. Gradually, achingly, Dean’s body remembers the comfort of Castiel’s. Dean relaxes against him. Dean relaxes into him. 

The movie ends, and Dean turns his head, looking deep into Castiel’s eyes with a wordless question across his handsome features. 

Castiel kisses him, long and slow and gentle. 

Dean trembles slightly, gooseflesh breaking out along his arms beneath his plaid sleeves. Castiel can feel it through intimate knowledge of Dean’s skin. It’s evident in Dean’s hands as they rise to frame Castiel’s face, and it’s plain in the way Dean’s breathing hitches at Castiel pulling Dean into his lap. 

“Let me make you feel good,” Castiel tells him in a low rumble. 

“The, the human way,” Dean answers, nodding into a kiss, their noses brushing. 

“I want to-”

“The human way,” Dean insists. 

“All right,” Castiel says, and flies them to bed. 

Dean yelps, his arms wrapping tight around Castiel’s neck, and Castiel turns him over, brings him down against the bed and secures him there with a thousand loving touches. 

“Ah fuck,” Dean sighs, the way he often sighs when Castiel has him naked and caught off-guard. Castiel kisses a path down Dean’s bare chest, vanishing more clothing as he goes, and Dean offers up his stiffening cock with a muttered, “Shit, I wish we’d done this before.”

“We’re doing it now,” Castiel answers. He takes Dean with his mouth, but allows Dean to set the pace. 

With a sound like a sob, Dean thrusts up only weakly, but he buries both hands in Castiel’s hair. He doesn’t tug, doesn’t pull. He barely holds on, as if believing he might hurt Castiel, as if believing Castiel might try to pull away. 

Castiel sucks him hard, kisses him soft. He makes love in an older sense of the phrase, mouthing sweet nothings against Dean’s skin. He pulls off to kiss and nip Dean’s inner thighs, freckled and sweet and hairy, and here, Dean finally draws Castiel back. Castiel swallows him down with a pleased hum. 

“Cas,” Dean moans, sounding almost pained. “Want you. Want _you_, Cas.”

Devoid of a gag reflex, Castiel nuzzles down into Dean’s pubic hair, his nose among the curls. Dean’s balls bump against his chin. One of Dean’s legs seizes, tightening over Castiel’s shoulder and the other twitches a kick, heel bouncing against Castiel’s back. 

Castiel swallows and swallows, and he vanishes the escaping remainder, unwilling to lift his head and admit to Dean that even the smallest amount escaped. 

Instead, he pulls off slowly, replacing mouth with hand as he rises. This other hand firm on Dean’s hip, Castiel digs the tip of his tongue against where he knows Dean to be most sensitive. 

Dean shouts, his body attempting to jackknife, but Castiel holds him down by hip and by dick. He hardens Dean anew. 

“Human way,” Dean pants. 

“Fornication is human,” Castiel reminds him. 

“Fuck, stop calling it that.” Dean throws an arm across his sweaty face, but his hips buck as Castiel licks up the side of his cock. 

“Fucking is human,” Castiel amends, and Dean’s heart rate accelerates beneath Castiel’s hands, beneath his lips. Lust rolls off Dean with each pulse, with every breath of air and bead of sweat, but apprehension stinks beneath it. Always so nervous, his Dean, always so afraid of impermanence. 

“I’m here,” Castiel murmurs against Dean’s length, making the most of the vibration. 

“Really fucking not,” Dean gasps out, finally gripping Castiel by the hair. 

In the hope more control will reassure Dean, Castiel rolls them over, puts himself on his back and Dean kneeling over him on all fours, sprawled over him. Castiel keeps Dean aloft with a hand on each hip, and he helps Dean fuck his mouth. Lifting, lowering, letting Dean enter so deep. 

Muttering harsh nonsense, Dean comes again, and Castiel drinks him up. 

“Cas, up here,” Dean groans, reaching. Vanishing his own clothing, Castiel complies in an instant. He pulls Dean tight against him, throws a leg over Dean’s hip where they lie side-by-side, and he plants his hand over the restored brand on Dean’s shoulder. 

“Miss you so much,” Dean gasps. For all a double dose of orgasm has shaken them loose, the words still visibly cost him.

Castiel wonders what else their lovemaking could set free. 

“_Ohshit_,” Dean squeaks, his voice jarringly high for his condition. Castiel plies him harder, and Dean ruts against his leg. 

“Do you want my hole, Dean?” Castiel asks, already pressing Dean onto his back. 

“Want _you_,” Dean insists, hands clamped on Castiel’s biceps. 

“You have me,” Castiel promises, straddling Dean, taking Dean into his physical body. Guiding Dean’s cock into his hole with his grace isn’t as good as flooding Dean with that power, with that essence of self, but Dean still sobs at the penetration. 

Castiel rides Dean orgasm to orgasm, seeking out the level of pleasure that best suits Dean tonight. They settle on a hazy one, perpetually half-spent. Castiel renews and restores, and Dean holds on, fingers clutching at Castiel’s arms, his neck, his shoulders. In truth, Castiel’s physical body matters very little, even less when he could be reaching inside Dean far more intimately, but Dean asked for the human way, and Castiel will not deny him. 

Castiel will satisfy him a hundredfold. 

When morning comes, Dean is nearly mindless, sheltered from exhaustion in the caressing cage of Castiel’s intangible wings. When Dean trembles too hard or begins to numb past even Castiel’s ability to refresh, Castiel pulls off Dean’s cock to anoint the rest of him with kisses and touches, with all the soft words that would typically make Dean squirm to hear. 

As noon passes, Castiel becomes aware that Dean’s phone—though located far from their bedroom, along with the rest of Dean’s removed clothes—the phone has begun to buzz with texts and ring with worry. A touch of Castiel’s senses reveal the caller to be Sam, but Dean needn’t know that. Dean needn’t know any of it at all. Dean has yet to realize he doesn’t truly need anything outside of Castiel, is still too prone to distractions.

Castiel reaches inside Dean with a finger of grace, more physical than merging, practically akin to human touch, though one with lube included. Castiel reaches and presses and stimulates. 

Dean shouts and shakes and comes until Sam stops calling. Only then does Castiel relent, the better to gather Dean up against his chest, the better to pull Dean close as Dean blindly reaches for him in return. 

“Oh my god,” Dean keeps saying, but he doesn’t mean Castiel’s father. He doesn’t mean anyone other than Castiel. The word doesn’t matter, Dean’s vocabulary too limited, too beautifully human to encompass what they are to each other. 

Castiel rocks him and comforts him. Castiel filters sustenance into Dean’s body, but he permits Dean to sleep, the better to hold him. Dean is so pliant, asleep. 

Evening passes, and much of the night. Dean awakes grumpy and confused at the lack of pleasure, and Castiel indulges. He makes Dean worship. He makes Dean beg. He makes Dean his as best he can. 

And yet, when night again gives way to day, Dean somehow fails to understand. Bleary-eyed and focused on Castiel, Dean traces idle shapes against Castiel’s chest and sighs, strangely wistful for a man still in his lover’s arms. 

“What is it?” Castiel asks. He tugs Dean closer with his leg, his thigh across Dean’s hip. 

Exhausted despite his rest, pained despite his pleasure, Dean sighs again. “I miss you,” Dean says, speaking from sad fact instead of passion. 

“I’m here,” Castiel promises, and seeks to prove it. More touches, more tending. More sex and more speaking. But no matter how he tries, there’s something that keeps Dean from believing him, keeps Dean from being truly and completely _his_. Even Dean knows he should belong to Castiel; the crux of the issue is that Dean doesn’t believe he already is. No matter how Castiel promises Dean that he’ll stay, that he’s here, Dean doubts this as well. 

Even so, it doesn’t matter. 

Whatever it takes, Castiel will convince him. 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, to see what else I'm working on, you can follow me on [tumblr here](http://bendingsignpost.tumblr.com/).


End file.
